


New Breed

by armouredescort



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Blood Magic, Body Horror, Eventual Fluff, Gaslighting, Gore, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Touching, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armouredescort/pseuds/armouredescort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen is captured and forcibly fed dragon's blood by Samson and his Templars, physically transforming him into something nobody has seen before. He escapes, but not before permanent changes set in, and he wonders if he'll be accepted by the Inquisition.</p><p>For the <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14591.html?thread=55239679#t55239679">kinkmeme</a> (link contains prompt with above triggers in tags)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> Please heed the warnings in the tags. This starts dark, gets a bit lighter, then gets dark again, before potential fluff at the end. (OP is yet to get back to me with pairing preferences). A lot of the warnings are for early chapters.
> 
> Unbetaed.

The red lyrium slipped past his lips, a hand clasped over his mouth, forcing him to swallow. Cullen choked, trying to spit it out. It was dissolving in his mouth like sugar crystals, slipping down his throat.

His blood surged. It had craved the lyrium for so long that now it didn't know what to do with it.

But lyrium didn't dissolve. So what was being fed to him?

The Red Templars stared at him. There was a sly grin on the largest, and Cullen could feel the lyrium song as the behemoth pushed more red crystals into Cullen's mouth. It flaked against the corners of his lips. A metallic taste slipped into his senses.

Blood. They were feeding him blood pellets.

He panicked, bucking wildly in his chains, until the Red Templar's hands pinned Cullen against the wall. Sharp nails dug into his skin but didn't penetrate.

"What do you want from me?" he snarled.

"A new breed."

Cullen kicked as hard as he could, then yelped as his hair caught in the behemoth's mutilated fingers, and a muzzle was strapped over his mouth, muffling his screams.

***

His skin was prickling. They hadn't fed him anything other than the blood pellets.

They throw him meat, uncooked, steeped in elfroot juice to make him drowsy and pliable.

He could feel his body changing. It was squirming on the inside. He didn't know what he was changing into. Not a Red Templar, otherwise they would have fed him red lyrium.

They hadn't given him lyrium of any sort.

The itchiness grew worse. His skin felt hard and small ridges were forming on his shoulders and back.

Cullen tried to scratch at his arms, but searing pain tore through his fingertips, and his fingernails scattered onto the floor. Blood streaked up his arms.

He turned his hands over and over, wiping the blood away as best he could. By the next day - or what Cullen assumed was the next day, he could only tell by the guards bringing him his food - there were sharp points emerging through the crust of blood.

The first thing he did was to scratch at his arms again, and there were tiny discs of some sort of scale just under the surface, rising when encouraged by Cullen scratching. He stopped, staring at the amber glints they reflected off reddish-brown scales, a pattern of pearlescent gold streaking through in stripes.

More ridges were forming, a prickle against his spine, and a matching line that stuck out against his shirt.

_Maker hear my thoughts, let the Inquisition be near. Let me be free of this torture._

Something ripped. A stabbing pressure threatened to rupture outwards from his spine. He rubbed his back against the cold stone of the wall, and that something did rupture, flaring as quill-like spikes.

They rose, the raw wound stinging in the air.

When the Red Templars came, Cullen tried to hide them, hide his claws. They grabbed his arms, rolling up his sleeves, and sneered.

"Keep feeding him the blood."

Cullen shivered as they stroked the spines up.

He slashed at their faces. Ugly welts of blood dripped onto the floor, and they unchained him as the blood started to crystallise into red lyrium.

"The boss wants you clean," said the Templars.

They moved him into a new cell.

It was darker, if possible. Cullen held out, dragging his feet to slow them down

"Come on, pretty thing. You need to grow big and strong for Samson."

They grabbed his hands, squeezing them. His claws slid from their sheathes. Pain radiated from the tips, and soon enough Cullen passed out, body twitching.

He should be scared. 

His heart thrummed. 

He was scared. He didn't know what was happening, his body was forcefully changing and he had no way of stopping it.

He screamed as loud as he could against the gag when his skin broke out with more patches of scale.


	2. Samson

There was a sharp piece of broken stone in his new cell. Cullen scratched his face as he rubbed the leather straps holding his muzzle on against it. After a few hours work, the straps came free and he shook his head to drop the mask down.

It made a clanging noise as the still locked clasps rattled on the floor.

His jaw ached as he tried to move it. There were too many teeth in his mouth. He spat.

A collection of blunt teeth fell out, chipping into pieces. The cold air and the shock made him cough, more blunt teeth falling out.

He ran his tongue over his mouth, expecting toothless gums and cut his tongue on sharp fangs that didn't sit in his jaw properly.

The raw meat was easier to swallow, and none of the Red Templars attempted to gag him again, afraid that he would bite them and consume red lyrium, thus destroying their entire experiment.

Cullen's appetite grew.

They gave him a heart of a bear next, and watched as he devoured it all, uncaring of the elfroot tampering. He had to eat, had to fill this emptiness inside him, and he could feel pressure on his tailbone, distending in shape, and sitting awkwardly above his waistband.

When Cullen swallowed, the glands in his throat pulsed, neck swelling as they filled with fluid.

***

The worst pain came thirty meals in. Cullen had dozed off, belly full of meat and blood pellets, when his lower half erupted with pain.

It was blinding, and he slipped in and out of consciousness, sometimes seeing Samson's face and a cruelly gentle hand stroking Cullen's cheek.

When he eventually came to, he retched onto someone's boots (he had the choice not to, but he wanted misery on everyone who watched him), and tried to stand.

His hips screamed in pain, legs collapsing underneath him.

"Don't stand like a human would, Cullen," said Samson.

Cullen glared upwards. There was vomit on Samson's boots. Good.

"Do you like your new tail?" he crooned.

His gloved hand pulled through Cullen's hair and trailed down, down, down his back and along his spine and it kept going, grabbing the scaled length and pulling.

"It's lovely, isn't it?"

It was sore and tender, the pulling making Cullen hiss angrily, fighting back tears.

"You're the first of your kind. And you are exquisite," said Samson.

He grabbed at the remains of Cullen's trousers, tearing them off. Cullen curled up, made a feeble swipe at Samson, and failed to stop the Templar from removing his smalls. He was exhausted, he couldn’t take this anymore.

When he looked down, he retched again. His lower half was covered in thick, hardy scales that reached his waist, legs reformed as if a dragon were standing on their hind legs. Sharp spurs jutted from his ankles, and his feet were no longer human.

Samson grabbed Cullen by the wrists to stop him from ripping at the scales.

What was more disturbing to Cullen was his crotch, a bulge of scales where his cock and balls had been, and a near imperceptible slit below his abdomen. Samson pressed on the bulge.

“You’ll be a good stud,” he said.

Cullen felt the bulge shift, and the slit stretched to allow his cock to slide from a protective layer of skin. It had changed as well, radically in structure. Vaguely, he remembered the Iron Bull talking about Qunari genitalia, how they had sacs that could swell up and knot, and Cullen could only hope that they didn’t look like what he was looking at.

Somehow he knew that they did.

He kicked Samson, tearing through robes and sliding off shiny metal. A shudder passed through him as he felt his cock slide back inside the scales.

“Let go of me,” shouted Cullen.

His voice was hoarse, a low growl under his words. He lisped slightly around his words, not used to his teeth. He felt his spines rise in anger, and something push through skin on his jaw - a frill. It had been shifting under a thin layer of skin for some time now, waiting to make themselves a permanent addition to his face.

“Stand,” ordered Samson. “Stand up.”

When Cullen refused, Samson hauled him up, looping his chains over a hook in the wall, letting him dangle on his feet.

“You could’ve captured a dragon,” said Cullen. “I assume that’s what you’re making me into.”

Samson chuckled.

“That’s not what I want,” said Samson.

He traced the scales with his fingers. The sensation was supposed to be intimate, but Cullen felt anything but intimate. He spat, feeling the glands in his neck release.

Caught with a face of spit, Samson backhanded Cullen, then wiped it off with Cullen’s shirt.

“Do that again, and I’ll feed you twice the amount of blood and not let you off this wall until you’ve finished growing,” said Samson.

Cullen didn’t have a chance to ask what Samson meant by growing. A new muzzle was clamped over his face, this time with a tube that went into his mouth, so the Red Templars could pour fluid into his mouth without the risk of being bitten.

Samson pumped in fresh blood this time, and Cullen’s body reacted accordingly. His heels scraped at the wall, shoulders trying to pop out of their sockets as he jerked uncontrollably.

***

When he woke up again, his feet were touching the ground, his chains tight on his ankles and wrists. Carefully, Cullen stood on his toes, stretching up and unhooking his arms.

They twisted and tensed as he brought them over his head to rest in his lap. When Cullen looked around, the cell felt smaller.

Why? What had happened whilst he was asleep?

He took closer stock of his body, and felt muscles shift around. His arms and legs were longer, corded with muscle, and his shirt had filled out with extra girth, tight against his chest.

When the behemoth came in to feed him, they paused. Before, Cullen had barely reached their stomach in height, but now his head was roughly up to their shoulder.

“Do you think his face looks elvhen with his nose and jaw like that?” asked the behemoth, and his small Red Templar companion nodded.

“All he needs is knife-ears,” said the companion.

There was no telling what had happened to his face, although his mouth now comfortably fit his teeth. Cullen screeched, yanking hard against his chains, and lurched forward. They held, but the Red Templars took a step back.

He yanked again.

The Inquisition couldn’t find him. That much was clear. They weren’t coming for him because they couldn’t find him.

Did he want them to find him like this?

No, but he had a duty. He had to get back to the Inquisition. He would not die as Samson’s experimental pet.


	3. Escape

Red Templars weren't particularly fireproof, Cullen discovered. At least not to the fire produced from highly sticky and flammable fluid that Cullen could spit.

Setting them on fire had been an accident.

One had come to feed Cullen more meat - and at this point Cullen felt like he could eat an entire suckling pig - and had removed the muzzle, using a pronged fork to push pieces of meat into Cullen's mouth. It was too much, too fast, and whilst he desperately wanted it, Cullen couldn't swallow.

He'd choked.

The meat had come flying out as he coughed, and it landed at the Red Templar's feet. A moment later, there was a spark through Cullen's body, electrifying him and arching to the forgotten meat. It was all it needed to ignite.

Covered in the fluid, it exploded, making the Templar go down in a screaming fit as one foot was destroyed and the other taking serious damage. Cullen was momentarily dazed, then he could feel his neck glands compressing as he breathed out. A thin stream of fire emerged with it, more smoke than flame.

The Red Templar was still screaming. This would be his only chance to flee, Samson would bind him up tighter if Cullen didn't _move_.

He let out a burst of fire, making it last as long as he could, and roasted his captor alive. Some of the flames dribbled down his chest, singing his shirt but leaving no pain or mark on his toughened skin.

He could hear footsteps clattering down the stairs to whatever dungeon he was being kept in. The screaming must have been heard by a guard.

Cullen set fire over his chains, but they were fireproof – Samson must have known that there would be firebreathing at some point. Damn him. Cullen would tear him from limb to limb given half a chance.

Next he tried running forward, the wall and chains groaning with the effort, speckles of dust coming with it. Over the years the paste that held the stones together had crumbled. He just needed to pull the bolts from the wall, or let the chain snap – whichever came first.

There was a stone-on-stone scraping and the anchor blocks that held the chain bolts tore straight out of the wall, the rest of it starting to collapse.

Cullen ran through the cell-door, the rubble coming down behind him as the cell-wall partially disintegrated. He came face to face with three startled Templars.

Flames refused to come – the sacs needed time to refill – so Cullen ducked their swords and tripped them up with his chains, then put one of them into a headlock, whilst the others were still tangled.

Where was that electricity he'd used before? He needed it now. His feet were still unsteady beneath him, and they would untangle themselves soon enough.

He snapped the neck of the Templar, and tensed his body, trying to release the electricity he knew his body could make. It didn't work.

No fire, no electricity, and no doubt more guards on their way.

He couldn't go back into a cell, couldn't let Samson keep changing his body. It was his, and as hideous as he no doubt appeared, he didn't want it to get worse. There was some sort of design to his transformation, some elements of snake-like beauty, but Cullen doubted that anyone could look upon him and not find him monstrous.

He dropped the dead Templar, taking his sword (which seemed pitifully small in his hands) and reached over to the others, tearing their helmets off. Red lyrium crusted their faces, scattering crystals on the ground.

Cullen raised the sword, and inserted it once, twice into their necks, their blood spilling from their throats.

The dungeon was silent. Cullen started to move towards what he assumed was the armoury, where he knew they would keep their prisoners' belongings, and perhaps even a spare set of keys for the cuffs.

He moved as quietly as he could, leaning forward on his new legs, tail lifting to balance him. It took a bit of exploring, but eventually Cullen came upon what he was looking for. He listened carefully for anyone inside, but there was only the scuttling of rats.

The shelves were lined with old weapons, blankets, clothes, and armour. Keys. After fumbling with them in his claws, Cullen unlocked his shackles, rubbing at the marks they had impressed into his skin.

Cullen spotted his armour right away. His fingers had barely touched the surface of his chainmail when he realised he wouldn't fit into it anymore. It was too small.

Or rather, he was too big. Cullen clenched his fingers, claws digging into his palms. A throbbing started up in his head, but he shoved those emotions aside to cobble together some sort of armour from the other pieces.

There couldn't be anything on his shoulders as the spikes there were too big, and they reminded Cullen of the elf Fenris, except Fenris was wearing armour rather than being forcibly transformed. He got something across his chest and stomach, pieces of leather that didn't mind a bit of extra bulk, although his sides were exposed.

A pair of trousers managed to slide over Cullen's legs, although they were a bit tight and snagged on his spurs. He pierced a hole into them for his tail, sighing happily as his lower half was covered again.

By some miracle, his coat fit him, although he had to rip off the sleeves to get his shoulders in. He kept the sleeves, stuffing them into a sack where he'd put two blankets and some knives. There was a package of meat on one bench, resting next to the vials that Cullen realised were the same ones Samson had been feeding him.

He took them. There was still a chance someone could reverse this. That he could be human again. Surely someone had some knowledge of this.

Cullen's gut twisted. It wanted to be sick, but Cullen didn't have the time to be sick. He threw a cloak over the top of his coat, and pulled the hood up.

He strapped his sword onto his waist – again, it felt small in his hands but he wasn't leaving it behind, he'd already come to admit to leave his armour behind. There was a shield, which he slid onto his arm.

Looking around, Cullen tried to figure out what else to take. His robes were loose. He could put them on later. He needed everything he could to have the Inquisition recognise him.

If they didn't, they would likely kill him. Into the bag the robes went.

That was all he had time for. Linger too long, and he would be caught.

He threw an uncovered torch into the armoury, letting the clothes catch fire. In a moment it was rising high, flames catching the wooden trusses that supported the ceiling.

Cullen ran, hoping he would have enough of a distraction to escape.

***

It was freezing outside, deep in a winter snowfall. Cullen pulled his scavenged clothes closer, and used the snow and fading light as cover.

When he went to the stables in hopes of stealing a horse, they made a fuss, rearing in their stalls, and Cullen was forced to run away before their groom could spot him.

He didn't know where he was. He'd been unconscious when they'd taken him here.

Heart pounding, Cullen made his escape by climbing over a spiked fence, dropping into the snow. He scrambled into the first forest he could find, hoping to throw off any trackers.

He took off his cape and coat, shivering furiously in the cold, and found his robes. With a few snags, he managed to get them on, although he hated how they clung to his body, highlighting the ridges and spines, tight around his arms. He redressed in his coat, and tied the torn sleeves over his arms for some extra warmth.

His tail tapped lightly in the snow as he worked, and he curled it around one leg when he stood to pull his cloak on.

It was pitch black now, a starless night and the thick canopy of the forest blocking anything by which he might navigate. There were lights in the distance, probably the Red Templar hold.

As stupid as he knew it was, Cullen continued to walk. Despite the darkness, he could see perfectly fine. Once or twice he saw the reflective eyes of other animals, but they avoided him.

His head still hurt. There was something trying to form near his temples, Cullen could tell. It was itchy. Probably horns.

It came to him, in a dull sort of fashion, that he wasn't even remotely surprised that he was still changing. The blood had been a catalyst, and they had forced so much down his throat that he didn't know when he'd stop changing. He only hoped they would be practical horns, and he blinked away the blood when they started to push from his skin.

***

When the dawn broke, Cullen climbed a tree.

It wasn't tall enough to breach the canopy. In fact, it wasn't that tall at all. It was just enough for him to shimmy along a narrow branch, wincing at the cracking noise it made, and jump to another tree, and start to climb higher. When that tree was getting shorter, he leapt to another one, claws digging deep as he hugged the trunk.

He panted. It had been some time since he'd been out and moving for so long. When the panting had passed, Cullen kept climbing until he breached the canopy.

It was a beautiful morning, the sun lighting the mountains and clouds in pink, the forest stretching wide around him. Judging by the rising sun and the position of the mountains that arched higher on one side than the other, Cullen was in Orlais. Potentially Emprise du Lion.

Skyhold was somewhere over that mountain range. He didn't need to get all the way to Skyhold by himself, though, he could find an Inquisition camp, convince them that he was their kidnapped commander, and be escorted from there.

Behind him there were thick plumes of smoke rising into the air. It had to be the Templar Keep. At least Cullen hoped it was.

Sleepiness almost overcame him as he perched in the tree, head dropping forward. It was only the pop of horn as it shifted outwards that pulled him awake.

He pushed his hood back, feeling his way through bloodied clumps of hair to where the pain was most.

The base of each horn was thick and round, skin lifting back as it couldn't heal against the horn. They were only stubs, but they were sharp, and felt as if they would grow straight back and then curve outwards at the end.

Cullen sighed, wanting to cry, but finding himself unable to do so. The tension was building in his chest – the crying would come later, he supposed, pulling his hood back up.

It was probably for the better. There was some walking to be done before he could rest without worrying about the Templars catching up.


	4. Hunt

Hunting down food was thrilling. The crunch of bone, a spurt of warm blood in his mouth, claws slitting the throat of his next meal. He suckled on bones and meat, lapping up the marrow. The sweetness of the venison was like nothing he had tasted before.

With a handful of snow, Cullen scrubbed off his face, revulsion starting to set in. It had felt utterly natural to hunt like an animal, and to eat like one. It had been too long since he'd been with comrades, and treated like a rational thinking being.

There was blood all over him. Handful after handful of snow was wiped over his face, each coming back stained with red. How could he hope to be accepted by the Inquisition if he couldn't even control himself? His mind was changing to match his body – a body that he'd yet to see in full.

"Maker," he whispered, hands going numb in the snow, the glistening remains of his prey scattered around him.

After some time of sitting there, Cullen rose, and melted some snow to drink, taking a rag made out of the cuff of his trousers to wipe the last of the gore from his mouth. 

There was a raised line of scales that had formed whilst he was sleeping, framing his face as they trailed over his cheekbones and into a v as they tapered off over his nose. He could feel them exposed to the elements, the last of his human skin flaking away. It was still the same colour in most places, but thick and leathered like a Qunari's.

In many ways Cullen felt Qunari, or however they decided to describe their race. Size, in particular, was one thing. He didn't think he would be quite as broad as Iron Bull, but he would certainly match him for height. He had horns – well, he was growing horns – and claws. Their teeth were sharp as well, and Cullen's ears had started to form points, stretching backwards in parallel with his horns.

But Cullen was more Drake than Qunari.

It had taken a day to get used to walking. The snow was deep, soaking his trouser legs, and making him slower than he'd like. Yet if he was having this problem, then so was Samson.

He'd been walking on and off for three days now.

Each day, when the sun reached its zenith, Cullen would climb a tree and expose his skin to the sun, noticing how they seemed shinier and healthier. The brown had lightened to a dark amber, the gold patterns tinged with red at the edges.

He wondered what that meant in the dragon world.

After about an hour of sunbathing, he would find a strong branch and tuck himself onto it to sleep. His tail came in handy, curled onto the branch to help him balance as he slept. It would be late afternoon when he awoke, and he would climb back up to see if he could spot anything before hunting food and then walking through the night.

Although Cullen hadn't seen any signs of the Red Templars following him, that didn't mean that they weren't. Samson would have been livid.

He wrapped the chunks of meat that he hadn't finished eating into his pack, and walked away from the animal corpse. No doubt it would be picked apart by other wildlife, now that he'd left it alone. There was an instinctive revulsion from the wildlife when they saw Cullen – he smelt and looked like a drake but he walked upright, and thus was the most terrifying thing they had seen in their relatively isolated lives in the forest.

When darkness finally consumed the forest, Cullen kept an eye out for campfires. He thought he roughly knew where he was, and that there was an Inquisition outpost nearby. Or a camp. He wasn't sure which, he couldn't remember the exact marker from the war map.

Cullen whispered prayers at night, if only for something to do. They would run into one another, words being slammed and jumbled as he grew more tired closer to dawn. Yet they kept him awake.

Then there was a glimmer of light up ahead. It wasn't moving.

He slowed his pace and stopped praying. As was his new habit to do, Cullen climbed into a tree when he was a hundred metres away from the fire, so he could stealthily peer down on them.

Their lookout was cleaning a knife, and they wore the Inquisition robes. The tents were also standard issue, and as Cullen leant to see around a pile of rocks, he could see a cave with more permanent structures being built, presumably to monitor the cave from Darkspawn. A heraldry hung from a flagpole, bearing the eyeball and sunburst.

As he retreated, Cullen realised he didn't have the faintest clue as to how to approach the camp without being shot. He set himself up in a tree, and rubbed his chafing horns on it, hoping to encourage them to be done with growing and settle. Large pieces of peeled horn came off, and fluttered away on the wind, and when Cullen reached to touch them, they felt smooth and glossy, like pieces of carved obsidian stone.

From what he could feel of them, they reminded him of illustrations of the Highland Ravager that the scouts had reported to be living around here. And like with everything else that had pushed out of his skin, Cullen cut slits in his cloak hood to make room for them.

Tucked away, Cullen dozed until the sun rose, and his tree shook as it was felled.

He let out a screech of surprise, and leapt to another tree, his pack fortunately still on his back.

"Edwin, did you hear that?" asked a voice.

Cullen pushed a branch aside, and stared down. Two woodcutters were standing over the fallen tree, stripping branches off the trunk.

"Hear what?"

Edwin was a dwarf with tufted white hair and work-rough hands. He had a woollen cap on and didn't look too impressed with his partner, a young, anxious city elf that was looking into the canopy. Cullen pressed against his trunk.

"That screech."

"I didn't hear anything. You're imagining things."

"I did not! You're deaf in one ear!" protested the elf. "And it sounded like a dragon."

"A dragon, sure. Whatever, kid, as long as you stop chatting and start getting these branches off," said Edwin.

They worked in silence for a bit, making their way up the trunk, when the elf shouted in delight and pointed at something. Cullen leant forward again, and held his breath: his horn scrapings were still there.

"I told you I heard something," said the elf gleefully. "You don't suppose that we disturbed its nest? Do you think it'll come back?"

"Probably. It'll like the look of you. Good snack."

They departed to tell their supervisor, each loaded up with a pack of firewood. Cullen released a breath. At least they hadn't seen him.

But they would be back soon and considerably more hostile if he didn't show himself – especially when he needed to eat. Bloody, torn up wolves and deer did not go down well with hunters, Cullen knew. They always assumed that there was a large and dangerous predator lurking about ready to gobble them up.

Looking at his hands, the long claws sharp and deadly, Cullen supposed that he _was_ a large and dangerous predator.

He navigated down the tree. Stood by the trunk. Thought once, twice, thrice over about his plan, and decided the best thing to do was to wait by the fallen tree for the woodcutters to come back with a higher member of the Inquisition.

So he sat on the tree and waited, ignoring the pressure on his head that meant his horns were lengthening. There was a spike of pain on his back as well. His heartbeat quickened, wondering what else his body had in store for him, and he clenched his hands.

"If you're making a fuss over a halla shedding their velvet, I am going to be extremely displeased."

A third voice, different to the dwarf and the elf, coming around the corner.

"It's up too high for a halla," said the elf.

They emerged from the trees, and the supervisor, another elf, spotted Cullen and shouted. Cullen's arms shot up into the air, standing to show that he intended no harm.

"It's a fucking tree Qunari," bellowed the second elf.

Weapons were drawn, pointing at Cullen. He swallowed, arms still high in surrender.

"What do you want, spy?"

"No," shouted Cullen. "I'm not. I'm not a spy."

"Then who are you?"

"I can show you. I'm lowering my hands to my hood now," said Cullen.

This wasn't working, this was a terrible plan. But he had to finish it, and the fabric snagged on his horn tip as Cullen pushed his hood off.

"I was kidnapped by Red Templars. I'm the Commander of the Inquisition," said Cullen.

"Bullshit! You're not Commander Cullen," said Edwin.

Cullen undid his cloak, letting it drop to the ground, revealing his tail and reshaped legs.

"I am," Cullen insisted. "I was experimented on. They changed me into this."

The second elf – Aliah, Cullen recognised him now – adjusted his bow, arrow drawn back.

"They're his robes," said Aliah. "I don't believe you though."

Frantically, Cullen pushed through memories to find something unique enough to convince them of his identity. He knew his skin was hardy, but he didn't want to test it with an arrow. Oh Maker, something from training, anything, a favourite food or something.

Ah. Aliah had been a bit of a vandal.

"I made you run ten laps of Skyhold for scratching a penis into the walls of the barracks," said Cullen.

Aliah lowered his bow.

"Shit. Oh flaming bronto shit," swore Edwin. "It's him."

"Commander," said Aliah. "I am so sorry. I didn't recognise you."

Cullen gave him a weak smile.

"It's fine, you had to verify. I don't think I'd recognise myself either. Now could we go to camp? I am desperate for some sleep that isn't in a tree," said Cullen.

They edged away from him as he let his hands drop and shifted towards them. He could see their fear, although they did well to hide it.


	5. Journey

His body was slowing down. Now that he wasn't being forced to swallow dragon's blood every day, the changes were less painful but no less horrific.

Scales covered his body from his toes to his neck, his face partially scaled around his chin and cheekbones. Nobody had given him a mirror, but Cullen could feel the scales on his cheeks.

Nobody wanted to, he suspected.

The camp gave him his own tent, and new clothes. They didn't question his habit of warming up in the sun.

After being subjected to an awkward tip-toeing of the Inquisition members, Cullen stayed inside his tent most of the time, waiting for the next supply convoy to be sent to Skyhold. One was due to arrive at the outpost with a fresh supply of agents. The unsightliness of his appearance made the whole camp uneasy, and Cullen knew when he wasn't needed.

In the time he had before the convoy arrived, Cullen taught himself how to write again. The quill slipped about in his claws, and more than one snapped in half from too much pressure. His handwriting was almost illegible, nothing like the clear and efficient script he was used to.

Over and over, Cullen wrote out what he remembered of his transformation, and clumsily sketched the Red Templar Keep's floor plans, at least what he knew of them. He flexed his hands, trying to bring back some of their sensitivity.

When the convoy finally arrived, after a week of waiting, Cullen could write adeptly enough and his signature didn't quiver on the page like a mouse's tail.

The elk pulling the sleighs stared him down and Cullen stared back, nose flaring slightly, journal clutched under one arm and sack of belongings under the other. During the changeover the new agents looked over at Cullen curiously, who had wisely put his hood on and kept his tail and claws hidden. From a distance he could be mistaken for Qunari.

But, Cullen mused as he scratched at his chin, he wasn't a Qunari.

Once this mess was over, and the Inquisition couldn't cure him, Cullen supposed he'd have to name himself.

 _They'll find something,_ he told himself. _Something to fix this. Or partially at least._

He checked the blood vials. Still safe and wrapped up in cloth. They had a long journey ahead of them.

When he was escorted to a caravan, they put him by himself, and strung a sheet between him and the opening flaps. It was funny, he thought he'd have more social contact, but it turned out that the Red Templars talked to him more than the agents and soldiers at the camp.

Yet he felt fine with having his own small compartment in a caravan. He wanted some sort of hiding place, at least for the moment. Supplies were bundled in after the sheet, disguising that there was an extra metre of space between the driver and the main compartment of the caravan, but leaving enough space for Cullen to travel comfortably enough. A plank of wood laid sideways slotted into metal brackets to stop any cargo from sliding backwards. Clearly they had transported people like this before.

For the sake of not spooking the elk, a gap was left at the top of the supplies so he could climb through the back without them seeing him. Cullen made a nest with a pillow and some blankets. He had his journal, although it would be too shaky to write whilst the caravan was in motion, and a couple of books.

For all intents and purposes, Cullen didn't exist on the passenger list, of which there were fifteen others. They had finished their duties at the outpost and had swapped with the incoming agents.

Of course, that didn't mean he was stuck in the caravan for the whole journey. His driver let him come out at night, and sometimes during the day when they were alone on the mountain pass. More often than not, Cullen took his meals away from the others.

If this was the reaction of regular agents and soldiers, Cullen questioned whether he should return to Skyhold at all. He still didn't know what he looked like.

His tail flicked anxiously through the snow. The soup he had in his lap was going cold. Lifting the bowl, Cullen sipped at it. It warmed him, which was just as well as he'd still not found an alternative to shoes, except for some elvhen leg wrappings which still left his toes cold.

His horns had settled, the skin at the base having a chance to heal over. Someone had brought a jar of horn ointment for the elk, but Cullen found it worked on his horns as well. The relief it brought had a shiver run through Cullen's body, spines and spurs rising in pleasure. They stopped chafing, finally clean, the gore that had plagued the bases peeling away to reveal tender, but solid skin.

When it fell off, there was a sense of revulsion too. It had been one large festering scab for each horn, and Cullen was glad to throw away the dead skin as soon as he could, burying it deep in snow. It was truly a foul mess and he was glad to be done with it.

The other travellers were a bit friendlier after that. They had another four days of travel, but they were over the summit of the mountain route, and thus closer to home.

By the end of the nine day journey, Cullen was well and truly done with confined spaces. He slept erratically, waking to think he was still in that cell in the Keep. He'd thrash against phantom chains. They weren't noisy nightmares, though.

He might whimper out a squeak once or twice. Years of being situated close to other sleeping people had taught his body to be quiet with his unconscious fear.

It hadn't been this bad when he was sleeping in the trees or in the tent.

Cullen clenched his hands, and then stretched his limbs. They were tense with memories. The small hiding space didn't allow him to extend his legs all of the way, but they felt better when he dropped them back into his blankets.

***

He was asleep when the convoy pulled into Skyhold. The sudden absence of motion woke Cullen. There was a good deal of noise, chattering and clanking as Skyhold went about its business. He could smell hay and animal manure – they had parked near the stables, then.

Groggily, he picked the sleep from his eyes and tried to make himself presentable. He smoothed back his hair, touched his horns with some salve, and put his cloak on.

He wondered who would see him first. He hoped it wasn't Josephine. He didn't want to scare her.

The caravan rocked as it was unloaded, and Cullen patiently waited for someone to fetch him.

"Don't open the last compartment," said the driver. "That's not for you to handle."

"What is it?" asked a voice, presumably one of the people unloading.

"None of your business."

There was a heavy sigh, and eventually the caravan stopped rocking. Cullen peeked through a gap in his sheet, wondering what was happening when someone peeked back.

Cullen screeched, startled, and the other person screamed at the same time. He grabbed them through a handful of sheet, claws tearing through, and they screamed again.

"Be quiet!" snarled Cullen.

It was too late. Any hopes at a peaceful reintegration into Skyhold were gone as guards descended upon the caravan and dragged both him and the sneaky peeper into the open.

He had a moment to realise he was inside the stable when the animals started to fuss.

The guards brandished swords and spears at Cullen. The sneaky one was just a stableboy, arm bruised from the tussle as they were being pulled out. Hissing, Cullen let of him, angry that the brat hadn't listened to the driver.

"Remove your hood," demanded the guard in charge, Lieutenant Hilbrand.

"Fetch the Inquisitor, the Lady Cassandra, and the advisors, then I will do anything you wish," said Cullen.

There was a flicker of confusion in Hilbrand's face, like he recognised Cullen's voice. He jabbed his spear forward, Cullen grabbing it and pushing it away from piercing his chest.

"Stop!" shouted Cassandra.

She was running across the courtyard at full speed, her legs eating up the gap in seconds. An elbow got her through the circle of guards and she was in front of Cullen, arms spread wide.

"Stop, this is your commander," she said.

Her voice was steel and fire, and she lifted her chin as if daring them to defy her.

She was shorter than him, Cullen noticed. She was tiny, circling around protectively, her hands half the size of his.

"We're not replacing Commander Cullen," said a guard, Cullen wasn't sure which one. "Especially not with a Qunari brute."

"Hold your tongues as well," said Cassandra.

Cullen felt a flare of pride – they had missed him. Evidently they were holding out for his return if they hadn't made a replacement.

"Commander, may I remove your hood?" asked Cassandra.

A crowd had gathered from the commotion, trying to see past a collection of guards that had bottlenecked them at the entrance to the stables.

"Not with them watching," said Cullen, tilting his head at the crowd.

Cassandra nodded, and gestured at the guards to close the barn doors. It went dark, the only light streaming in from the high windows, pooling near Cullen's feet.

Slowly, he lifted his hood, undressing his form. His fingers shook, and when Cassandra turned to gaze at him, he trembled worse, claws slicing off buttons rather than unpicking them.

"You can stop," she said.

Her hand folded over his. He couldn't see past her to the guards, his eyes filling with tears, chest shuddering. In a rare display of affection, Cassandra pulled him into a hug.

"He was tortured," said Cassandra. "With dragon's blood. Now leave and do not speak of this to anyone."

The guards slunk out, their eyes drilling into Cullen as they tried to comprehend what he'd become.

"Thank you, Cassandra," said Cullen.

"It was nothing. Now put your cloak on and we'll see the Inquisitor."


	6. Return

At his side was Cassandra, a comforting presence. The hall was looking better since Cullen was last here, the scaffolding gone and Inquisition tapestries hanging from the ceiling. He looked up at the ceiling, spotting prying eyes from the balconies.

He tucked his tail further inside his cloak, hoping that it hadn't slipped out. There was murmuring. He gripped Cassandra's arm, a squeeze to make sure she was still there. There was a terrifying silence, interrupted by the crackle of the fires lining the hall

Despite his longer legs, it felt like the hall was stretching out, their movements sluggish as if walking through water.

They finally made it to Josephine's office. The clunk of the inner door was calming, the glow of her fireplace warming Cullen as he edged towards it.

"Where is Josephine?" asked Cullen.

It was odd for her to have been absent from her office.

"She'll be along," said Cassandra.

"Should we go into the war room?"

Cassandra shook her head, stepping into the sunken area and taking a seat on the lounge. She gestured for him to follow. The couch was too low, Cullen's legs sprawled in a pose that felt casual for the situation but were unable to sit military fashion due to their joints.

"I hope someone has warned her," said Cullen. "I wouldn't want her to be frightened."

The huff of amusement from Cassandra startled him.

"She's far more unshakeable than you realise."

The fire crackled as they lapsed into silence. Glowing embers caught Cullen's attention, and he leant forward, letting the heat sink into his scales. After a while Cassandra stood up to examine Josephine's bookshelf, growing impatient on the lounge. Yet the fire glinted in her eyes, watching Cullen as he stared into nothingness.

If he were alone, Cullen would have fancied curling up on the floor to bathe in the heat. Maybe he could have a fireplace installed in his office? That was a pleasant thought, a timid hope upon which flowered a peaceful fantasy. Staying in Skyhold, staying the Commander.

He had no doubt that he would be gently rebuffed, given his backpay, and asked to leave with dignity. It was in the best interest of everyone involved.

Where would he go?

The door opened, Josephine and Cadash entering. Cadash stared, frozen to the spot as Josephine rushed forward, her arms around Cullen before he could stop her. She was crying, the wet tears soaking into Cullen's cloak.

"I thought we would never see you again. We tried so hard to find you," said Josephine.

She let go, holding Cullen by his shoulders, looking him over. Her eyes traced what Cullen assumed were his horns and markings. He was uncertain if she was finding what had changed or what had remained the same.

"You're still our commander," said Cadash.

He trotted down the steps and gave Cullen another hard stare.

"But the Inquisition's reputation-" Cullen began.

"Did they fry your brain?" asked Cadash.

"No," said Cullen.

"Then reputation be damned. If you can still lead an army and swing a sword, then I don't give a damn what you look like now," Cadash said.

He patted Cullen's knee, not quite tall enough to reach the shoulder even if Cullen was sitting.

Now that his stress had been relieved by virtue of knowing he didn't need to run away to live in the Hinterlands by himself, Cullen felt tiredness overcoming his senses. It didn't make much sense since he'd been stuck in a caravan for so long but not a lot did make sense these days. He felt crowded, even though Cullen also felt intense longing to be with them, craving the comfort of touch and conversation that wasn't through the bars of a cage or with some hostile travellers.

A yawn escaped him, no doubt showing off his sharpened teeth.

They hurried him off to his tower, untouched since he'd disappeared, and the bed was shaken out. Cullen flopped onto it, thankful that the hole in his ceiling let him curl up in the sunlight.

 _Someone's covered my mirror,_ Cullen thought to himself as he drifted off.

•

 _Lip scar. Posture. Voice is slightly raspier; damaged vocal cords,_ he thought.

At least he still had his hair and some of his face. The scales had covered his face, but he could see he had the same facial structure, nose slightly flattened, eyes a little bigger – although his pupils had narrowed to slits, his sclera turning the same yellow-green as his irises. The colour of his facial scales were lighter than the rest of his body, a softer peachy complexion that trailed down his neck. When he disrobed, he found that the peach-colour extended down his belly, between his legs, and ran along the underside of his tail.

Overall, he didn't look half as bad as he'd been expecting. His jaw was wider, squarer, and he had all manner of frills and spikes coming off him, but at least he didn't have wings. He supposed that was because he was male, and that only female high dragons had wings.

He was still uncomfortable with his crotch. The internal nature of it was foreign to him, and he'd yet to experience arousal with it. Cullen wasn't sure if he wanted to - his cock had grown larger, matching the rest of his proportions, and it made him nervous even when it was just taking a piss on the side of a road somewhere.

He stopped staring at his crotch, and turned to inspect his tail. It was thick, as long as his body length, and was pushing barbs from the skin, ending with a flare of frills and spikes that matched the ones on his face. 

Something about the tail made Cullen feel queasy. He threw the sheet over his mirror.

Some of his clothes had been hastily modified to fit. It mostly consisted of cutting and hemming holes, adding buttons and straps. His smalls he put on out of habit, finding that they had been snipped at the small of his back, and could be fastened around his tail with a button. 

His undershirt had been sliced up the back and given buttons at regular intervals to let the ridge of spines through. There was a strip of extra fabric for the buttons, the shirt sitting loosely against his scales. The sleeves had been partially detached for the spikes on his shoulders - these had laces instead of buttons to thread around the spikes. The hem hung past his tail, a hasty addition of cloth for his larger frame, and was left unsecured.

He did his feet wraps next, these being completely new to him, criss-crossing over his legs elvhen style, stopping mid-thigh, like particularly long socks. This was a struggle - Cullen wrapped his feet three times before he finally felt satisfied. The wrappings were warm though, some sort of wool retaining his body heat.

When he pulled on his trousers, they had only made a hole, therefore he had to slip his tail through before pulling them up all of the way. There was a few extra inches of fabric that extended down his tail like a sock or stocking. Tailors had added cords into the hem of each leg. They weren't nearly long enough to cover his legs anymore, so the cords secured them just above the spurs of his "ankles." The waistband was high, and Cullen tucked in his undershirt before reaching for his similarly modified tunic.

He felt almost himself now that he was mostly dressed.

Smoothing down the red tunic, he reached for his belts and found they had been replaced with a new contraption of straps. It started off as a belt would, but upon reaching his tail, it had a ring to split off the leather into two straps, and then rejoined the belt with another ring. From the split ran two parallel straps that extended along his tail for a good foot of length, then another ring of leather could be buckled under his tail. Various pouches and bags hung from the parallel straps, all kept in place with a strap of their own.

Of course. He couldn't rest any pouches against the small of his back. Whoever had done the leatherwork was skilled indeed, especially since he had not been measured for it.

Cullen buckled it on, then did up the main belt, sliding his sword into its sheath.

Someone had washed and fixed his coat for him, and Cullen slipped it on, realising they had unpicked part of the seam that ran along his back so it could split over his tail, but they let the heavy weight of the coat flatten his spines. The sleeves had gussets inserted into them and they had been sewn back onto the coat with straps for his shoulder spikes. A hood had been attached, one that slipped over his horns and pointed ears, allowing them escape through specially cut slits. The cowl rested low, enough to cover his face in shadow but not obscure his vision.

Someone had added a cape for him to try, the length flowing over the floor in a train to hide his tail without having to curl it up. The front dropped to just brush the ground, enough to hide his legs. Cullen tried it on, and found it too long and obvious to be of use, opting for the worn traveller's cape he'd been wearing. Someone had washed this also, the fabric soft and patched with squares.

Time to start debriefing.

His claws rattled against the door handle as he plucked up the courage to leave for the War Room, where he would plan with the Inquisitor an announcement of his return.


	7. Tasting Scents

It had been three days since the Inquisitor had taken Cullen to the Inner Circle and explained what had happened. It had been two days since they revealed the news to the larger population at Skyhold. It had been one day since Cullen had observed any new changes to his body, staring at himself in the mirror each morning. His tongue had split, like a snake's, which made talking an affair of hisses and fumbling around words until he figured out how to speak without biting his tongue. The last change had been his horns taking on a golden sheen, finally arching up to their full size. He'd been a relatively tall man to begin with, but now he was the same height as the Iron Bull, if not a more slender creature.

He couldn't think of himself as human anymore. Who knew what sort of secrets lay in his skin, waiting to unfold? Cullen was the first and last of his kind. The alchemists and the mages had taken the dragon blood vials but they had yet to report anything. It had been doctored in some way, but not with Lyrium or taint.

There was only one thing to do: continue life, despite all of the changes that had to be made to his lifestyle.

There was paperwork, training, War Room meetings, sometimes hunting for food (he found that he needed to work it out of his system), and fittings with tailors and seamstresses. The indiscreet glances were the worst. He'd rather they just stare at him and be done with it.

Visitors were slowly being allowed in. No doubt the rest of the country would know what had happened before long. _The Skyhold Commander is half-drake, half-man. The Skyhold Commander hunts his meals with his claws and teeth. He's a beast, he was tortured, the Red Templars want him back._

The only one that stared at him directly was the Iron Bull. Cullen knew the man had a fascination for dragons. Somehow, whenever Cullen was walking from one part of Skyhold to the other, the Iron Bull would always be nearby. Even if he was out of sight, Cullen somehow managed to figure out exactly where the Qunari was. 

It was his scent. Sweaty, musky, and earthen. Everyone had scents now, but the Iron Bull's was particularly pungent.

Cullen didn't think sex would ever appeal to him again, but whenever he caught that scent, a jolt of unexpected pleasure would roll through him. It was delicious. His tail would flick in agitation, and his frill would stand up, tongue tasting the air. Then, embarrassed by his display, Cullen would shove past the Iron Bull and head towards wherever he had to be.

The first early morning training session had been a disaster. Hardly anybody showed, and those that did seemed unsettled or distracted by Cullen.

"He walks like a predator," one of them whispered.

Cullen glared. Yet he made an effort to walk in a more human fashion. It didn't work – his legs kept sliding back into that easy, ready-to-lunge stalking motion.

It took another week for Cullen to break into tears.

Cleaning up his desk, he found his letters from Mia, tucked into a box like they always were. There was a new one, seal unbroken – plain yellow wax with a cat's head and a circle of wheat and barley around it. The family crest.

The letter said that Mia was coming to Skyhold, that she couldn't stand having not seen her little brother for years. They'd lost their parents to the Blight, and she wasn't about to die without seeing her family again.

It was dated two months ago, which meant that Mia didn't know he'd been captured and tortured. It also meant that she, and whoever else was with her, would be arriving in a matter of weeks.

Cullen grabbed his horns at the base, tugging at them in despair. She couldn't see him like this, he couldn't do that to her. And he started to weep, loosening his grip on his horns and burying his face in his hands.

At least he could still cry.

•

"What do you want?" snapped Cullen.

He was sick of the Iron Bull following him. Didn't the Qunari have better things to do, like train his mercenary group?

"Why were you crying?" asked the Bull.

"I wasn't," said Cullen.

He was certain that he didn't have any puffiness around his eyes, and he'd been quiet.

"Your sleeves smell like dragon's tears."

Cullen almost lifted his hand to sniff. Almost. He wasn't about to let the Bull push him around.

"It's none of your business. Stop following me," said Cullen.

He had to tell the Inquisitor to keep the Iron Bull off him. And that Mia was coming and they had to do something so that she wouldn't die of fright on the spot when she saw Cullen.

He thought he heard the Bull murmur, "You smell amazing," but that was just a trick of his ears, mixing the courtyard noises together, surely.

Nobody could find him appealing. What did dragon's tears smell like anyway? When Cullen lifted his sleeve, he could smell smoke and salt, and it glittered in the sunlight as it dried.


	8. Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me six months to figure out the next chapter. Sorry about that.

The only good thing in all this was Cullen could still drink. He thought he had passed through all of the changes that the dragon's blood had to offer, but he had discovered his hair falling out that morning. Vanity wasn't one of his main traits, but couldn't a man keep his hair? Pushing his hands through his hair only drew away entire locks in his fingers.

So getting smashed off his face was the only thing left to do.

"Cullen. You look," there was a pause, "different, today."

Cullen glared at the source of the voice. The Iron Bull. Of course.

His body tensed in displeasure. Keeping a neutral face had been hard enough for Cullen in the past, but his various frills and spines rose whenever he was displeased. The sacs on his throat clenched, ready to spit, and the static in his body made the last of his hair frizz in anticipation of setting something on fire.

"Bull," said Cullen, stiffly bringing his tankard to his mouth.

He wanted to be miserable alone. The musky, earthy scent that Bull gave off made Cullen's body try to relax, but he was angry and didn't want Bull's company. Stuck between two desires, Cullen couldn't voice his disapproval of Bull sitting next to him, especially when Bull paid for another drink.

"Not chatty tonight?" chuckled the Iron Bull.

"I have lost most of my hair, so no, not particularly chatty," snapped Cullen.

He downed his drink, plucked out a remaining lock for Bull to see, and knocked back the tankard Bull had bought. Before he could storm off, the buzz of alcohol dominating his system, Bull grabbed him by the upper arm.

"What now?" snapped Cullen.

Other patrons were looking at them, and Maryden quickly leapt to another box when Cullen stumbled backwards to try to escape. The tavern fell to a hushed murmur between patrons.

"We should spar," said the Iron Bull. "You need it."

Cullen hissed. With a quick jerked movement, he broke away from Bull. He did need to work out the energy accumulating in his body. The quiet in the tavern was his fault. He had just wanted a drink. He didn't care if they stared, but he cared if they stared and didn't talk.

He fled out the door, and could smell the Iron Bull following him.

Cullen turned around to face him, but was met with a flying pole. He caught it, settling into a readying stance. He had no clue as to when the Iron Bull had picked up the pole, but he had scant time to think about it with a wooden sword coming at him. Cullen deflected the Bull's blow, and then brought his pole around to smack Bull. The Qunari grunted, and they jumped away from one another.

"Hit me. As hard as you can," said the Bull.

They clashed again, the Bull shoving Cullen away. His tail tried to flick up for balance, but Cullen had purposely tied it down to one leg before going to the tavern in the hopes that he could mimic his old gait. The push had him tumbling onto the ground.

"You're faster than me, Cullen. Embrace what has happened. Use it."

Bull loomed over him. Cullen tried to roll away and found himself hoisted onto his feet, the Bull searching for the knot to untie Cullen's tail. After being forced sideways for a few hours, it flicked back into position, the bones clicking as they settled. Bull held it, driving a thumb into the nerves there, and Cullen snarled. He wriggled away, kicking with his feet.

The strange grace Cullen had acquired with his new body returned. The pole was held in a loose grip, Cullen's eyes never leaving the Bull's body as he backed up. Judging. Waiting.

They circled one another. Bull feinted right, then swung in from the left, Cullen using the pole to protect himself. He stumbled from the force of the blow, but this time he didn't fall.

He wondered what the Bull thought of his scent. Was it pleasant to the Qunari? Repellant? Aggression-inducing? The latter would certainly explain the stubbornness.

Cullen was fast. As the Bull had predicted.

Cullen's clawed feet barely touched the surface before he pushed off again, deep rivets of dirt and grass kicked up underneath from the force.

They kept up this game of weave and tap for what felt like hours. Realistically, it had been less than one, but Cullen found himself tiring, both physically and emotionally.

There was a crack as the Bull's sword was caught by Cullen's shoulder, the noise coming from the sword and not Cullen's body. The light wood splintered on the next blow against Cullen's pole.

They were both panting. Cullen threw down his pole.

"Are you happy now?" he asked.

"Are you?" the Bull shot back.

The fight had exhausted him. But as he moved closer to the Bull, his adrenaline spiked with the scent of himself mixed into the Bull's. The glistening skin was tempting, slick, and Cullen reached out to touch the Bull's shoulder before snatching his hand back. Bull still had sweat. Cullen couldn't remember when he'd lost that ability.

Bull was not as shy. He tugged at Cullen's clothes, setting them right before spinning Cullen around to check for discrepancies.

"I don't know," said Cullen, twisting around to face the Bull. "Happy? Maybe."

He put his hands into his hair nervously, then grimaced at the loose hair that snagged away. There were ragged patches left. New frills and spines seemed to be budding – Cullen could feel the itchiness and the lumps on his head.

"Let me help you with your hair," said the Bull. "I can pluck it all out at once for a clean moult."

Cullen hesitated. This was his hair. He didn't want to lose it.

And yet he was going to lose it anyway. It might as well be a clean departure. He couldn't possibly pull it all out by himself.

He nodded, and followed the Bull up the side entrance to the tavern's lodgings.

***

Sunlight streamed into the room, Cullen rousing from a light tap on his back. He jerked awake, sacs filling with liquid ready to spit and set someone on fire.

He looked around, realising he was tangled up in the sheets of the Iron Bull. The Iron Bull stood next to the bed, amused in the way that he always was when dealing with startled bed occupants.

The night came back to Cullen, and he relaxed his neck, coaxing his body to settle down. Drinking, fighting, then sitting on a chair as the Bull tugged the last of his hair out.

Running his hands over the back of his skull, Cullen sighed in relief at the lack of itchiness. Little quills had started to emerge, making the surface rough, trailing down to his nape.

After the hair removal, Cullen had fallen asleep. Presumably. 

He didn't recall anything except the Bull's deft fingers winding around locks of hair and pulling them out.

It had been a relaxing experience. Somehow he didn't find it to be as alarming as he first imagined. The Iron Bull had a reputation for being rough. But he also could figure out exactly what one needed. And perhaps it wasn't just sexual. The Iron Bull didn't do anything without permission.

"Are you hungry?" asked the Bull.

Cullen nodded and the Bull set down the tray onto Cullen's lap. Cullen couldn't see another tray.

"Are you not eating?"

The Bull shook his head. "I've already eaten with the Chargers. They wanted to know what we were up to, but I told them it was private. They're used to that. They won't spread rumours, either."

When Cullen finished his meal, he put the tray to one side. He felt strange, and then realised that he'd enjoyed being in the Bull's room, someone looking after him without a sense of pity. The Bull had only wanted to help.

And judging by the way that the Bull's eyes swept over Cullen's body, there was a definite attraction.

"You don't find me repulsive," said Cullen slowly. "Or do you only find me interesting because of what has happened to me?"

The Bull huffed. Amusement. Interest. Casual truth.

"I find myself wanting to help you, but I've always wanted to help you, Commander. You're attractive to me because I liked you to begin with, and to be honest, your new look drives me wild," said the Bull.

If Cullen still had the ability to blush, he would have, more from the blunt nature of the Bull's words. Instead, he felt his frills flutter with approval.

"I am flattered. Overwhelmed," Cullen stuttered out. "I have to go. I have a meeting with the Inquisitor."

"Of course," said the Bull.

He held out Cullen's belt and cloak, helping him dress in his outer clothes. They smelt slightly of beer and sweat, but Cullen was too flustered to notice.

"If there's anything you need, come to me," said the Bull.

The careful lick of his lips indicated exactly what the Bull meant. Too stunned to react, Cullen hurried out the door, and ignored the sly smiles from the Chargers as he passed them in the tavern.


	9. Slice

There was something in the way the meat was cooked and presented that made Cullen excuse himself from the mess hall. He thought he was ready to share a meal with his soldiers, but when he saw the platters of food, he turned around and marched himself to a secluded corner, and willed his stomach to calm.

Memories of being tied up and thrown raw meat pressed down on him. Thick slabs messily torn apart in his half-formed hands, his body trying to absorb it as fast as it could to fuel his transformation. Fluids forced in through the muzzle, his aching jaw pressing tighter into the straps as it widened.

Cullen was thankful that Josephine found him when she did and invited him to eat in her office. The dainty foods she served were nothing like what Samson had given him, and Cullen focused on this difference to ground him.

"Do you think this is my punishment?" asked Cullen. "For all those years in Kirkwall?"

Josephine paused, staring deep into her cup of tea.

"You have done things that many may never forgive you for," she said. "But this is not how many would have wanted to see you pay for your misdeeds. Yet I believe the mages like you better this way. I overheard a conversation that implied that your visage is how people see mages. As beasts. So perhaps they feel it is fitting, and I would not blame them for thinking so."

She sipped her tea. There was a silence as Cullen mulled over her words.

"Then it is some sort of justice for them," said Cullen.

"Justice would have been better served another way, however you asked for my opinion," Josephine replied.

Her hands wrapped around his, helping Cullen fold his claws around his teacup without scratching the glazed surface. Cullen had found Josephine petite before he had changed – now she seemed tiny. He took care not to move with abruptness, aware that his added strength could hurt her.

"If you meant the question in a religious sense, then I don't believe the Maker did this. Only people and their streak of cruelty. We must take charge of ourselves. What happened to you was terrible, but you are responsible for what happens next," said Josephine.

Cullen nodded, raising his teacup and letting the liquid slip down his throat. It warmed him, and he clutched at the pottery to let the heat seep into his hands.

"Do you believe I will ever change back?" asked Cullen.

"Our researchers have had no progress in discovering the exact method Samson used. So not in the near future," said Josephine. "I know it's of no comfort to hear this, but I do admire the patterns of your scales. You should try to admire your body as well."

Josephine offered Cullen a plate of fruit. He selected a small branch of grapes.

"Not that it'll be easy, but becoming comfortable with what you are is more helpful for your health than rejecting it," Josephine continued.

A queasiness filled Cullen's head. How could anyone be comfortable with this body? He didn't voice this question, but continued to eat to fight off the lightheadedness. It had been difficult enough for the guards to haul out his unconscious body when he'd been human-shaped and fainted from a lyrium withdrawal in Josephine's office. If he fainted now, there would be no moving him until he recovered.

He stared at his claws, delicately pulling grapes from the bunch. One slipped and the tip of his claw split the skin.

"I don't think it will be possible," said Cullen, finally. "I am too foreign to myself."

"Then spend your time with those who find you interesting," said Josephine.

***

The horns sounded, announcing the arrival of caravans. It wasn't unusual to hear them so late in the evening, the passengers making the slow ascent by foot so their animals had less to pull. It had been made easier and safer by the addition of a trade route Solas had discovered on an old map, but to ascend from the base generally took a day or more.

Cullen was used to these noises. After all, they were vital for the running of Skyhold. A merchant horn was different to the Inquisitor's horn, and so he would only take notice of the latter. Made it handy for absorbing himself in paperwork – he wouldn't move unless there was a real emergency.

He stroked his new head spines and frills absently, liking the texture under his fingers as he smoothed them down. The Bull had been right – removing his hair neatly had encouraged the new growth to come out smoothly and without infection from trapped hair.

Not long after the horn was sounded, there was the clatter of the inner portcullis. They had made it just in time for curfew, Cullen thought as the outer portcullis made a similar noise. He glanced out his window to judge the time and frowned.

It was too early for curfew. The sun hadn't set entire on one of the mountains. A second horn sounded in three sharp notes, followed by a longer one – as long as the player could hold it. There was something wrong at the gates.

Pushing away from his table, Cullen strapped his sword to his belt, and snatched up his shield.

He was out the door and to the entrance of Skyhold quicker than the other guards hurrying to their posts along the walls. They were looking for more intruders coming up the mountain, although it was hard to pull a sneak attack on Skyhold, perched as it was on the mountaintop.

As Cullen drew closer, he could hear the commotion at the gate. Someone was shouting angrily between the two portcullis, trapped there.

"What appears to be the problem?" Cullen asked a guard, who was watching the exchange.

From this angle, Cullen could only see a hand wriggled through the portcullis pointing accusingly at another of his guards. The guardswoman had her best placating tone on, but one hand still gripped her spear in a position ready to turn it and slide the point through the cage.

"Lady claiming to be your sister," said the guard.

Oh fuck. He'd forgotten to let the guards know his sister was arriving. Of course they'd be suspicious of her. They were suspicious of anyone specifically coming to Skyhold to see him. After all, Samson had not given Cullen up willingly.

Cullen pushed past the guards gathered.

"Mia?" he called.

"Cullen?"

He grabbed her outstretched hand. Mia looked well, her skin a dark tan from working in the sun, and no dark circles under her eyes.

He saw her head turn towards him, eyes lifting to meet his – except his were higher now. He was taller. She didn't know. She hadn't registered the reptilian skin touching her. 

Cullen had momentarily forgotten from the happiness of seeing her again, that he had been changed.

Mia stumbled back with a scream of horror. Her hand scraped over his claws, leaving deep slices that welled up immediately. With a gasp and a second scream, Mia crumpled to a heap on the ground.

"Raise the portcullis," ordered Cullen.

"Sir?"

"Now!"

He stared at her motionless body and felt like tearing his in half by his own claws. The portcullis rose agonisingly slowly, every moment of scraping metal and wood only furthering that desire to hurt himself.

Finally it was high enough for him to slide under, collect Mia's body and carry her to the healers. Blood had soaked into her traveling clothes and onto Cullen's coat.

Mia's healer shooed him out, not wanting him to frighten her a second time. Cullen choked back a sob and removed himself to his tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda wish they'd called Mia a different name.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments! I'll be replying to them soon :D


	10. Holding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all just agree that I'm a terrible updater. I really want to finish this fic, though.

It was understandable. She was too personally attached to her brother to be able to handle the changes wrought by dragon's blood.

As soon as Mia recovered from her fainting spell and her hand had healed – as scarless as possible, Cullen had begged the healers, even if it cost royal elfroot – she was given a room to herself, and passage booked on a merchant cart due out in a week.

For all of her travelling, she had planned to stay that long anyway. She had left the family home for too long. Or so she claimed. One of her letters had detailed the new farmhands, so Cullen doubted that there was a lack of experienced hands. Yet it could be true. He wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Cullen wrote her a letter to explain. Sealed it.

"You are an imposter. You're not him. He would have rather died than become a monster," she said when he presented it to her.

She rolled over in her crib and Cullen had no choice but to leave the letter on her travelling bag and hope that maybe one day she would read it. Maybe write to him again.

It still felt like agony that she was so close for seven days, and didn't want to see him.

The cart left before the sun was up, soft fog covering the path down. Lanterns of veilfire lit the way. Their glow coloured the mountain an eerie green, fading with the dawn.

Cullen watched until even his enhanced eyes couldn't see the little lamp bouncing about on Mia's cart. It sputtered and then vanished around the corner of a mountain pass.

He locked himself in his tower for three days.

***

Why had it been so easy for the others to accept him? It wasn't the time they had spent together for Cullen had departed for the Chantry when he was twelve years old, and they had since been separated for long stretches of time. Cullen had been in the physical presence of some of his soldiers longer than he'd been with Mia.

But she was still attached.

She wasn't being unreasonable. Not once did Cullen blame her for leaving.

Yet his last blood relative disowning him still hurt. He was monstrous. He wasn't a monster. He _wasn't._

Cullen peeked at his reflection every morning, hoping that he would need to make use of his shaving equipment to clean off stubble that had long stopped growing. If he grew stubble, that meant he was changing back. Deep in his chest, tight with emotion, Cullen knew he would never change back.

It took those three days in his tower to gather himself from the tiny pieces that Mia had made of his heart and self confidence. Not everything fit. His soul felt fragmented and broken.

His body, which he had been growing used to, swayed and quivered under the pressure. He dutifully ate and worked during his solitude, but spent the nights rugged up and replaying Mia's reaction in his mind. After running it so many times, Cullen came to the conclusion that nothing could have changed what had happened.

So the daily peek into the mirror began to be something else. Slowly, Cullen stopped looking for stubble, and started to look at his face. Really look at it.

The glimpses became longer, more of the mirror was uncovered to look at more of his body. Every time he passed his mirror, he'd pause, try to smile, and move on.

***  
The Iron Bull was sitting in his usual place at the tavern, drinking with the Chargers and a few off-duty Inquisition soldiers. They didn't say anything to one another when Cullen brought over a new pitcher of ale, but the mood seemed to stay friendly.

After a few hours of drinking, and listening to the Bull and his group gossip, Cullen excused himself. He glanced at the Bull, catching his eye, and the Bull peeled away from the group. They went upstairs, the Bull letting Cullen in his room, and closing the door behind them.

"I don't want sex," said Cullen, before Bull could say anything. "I want–I want to be held."

"You're not the first," chuckled the Iron Bull.

Although he laughed, the Bull took this very seriously and gently embraced Cullen. The commander needed it. They stood there for several minutes, Cullen leaning into the Bull and the Bull rocking them gently from side to side. Even like this, Cullen was still light enough to carry, and there was a small gasp of surprise, but no protests when the Bull slipped his arms lower to lift Cullen into the air. Instead, Cullen's face pressed against the Bull's neck as their horns gently scraped against each other.

The Bull carried them over to his generously large bed, sitting down so that Cullen was in his lap. He saw the hesitation in Cullen's eyes.

"No sex. Just holding," said the Bull.

Cullen leant forward, resting gently against the Bull once more. A deep rumbling came from his chest when the Bull smoothed down Cullen's fringe with one hand. The other rested against Cullen's shoulder blades, a firm pressure to rub away the tension. Cullen's tail wrapped around the Bull's leg, inching down and squeezing in delight whenever the Bull found a new spot to tease Cullen's misery away.

This man was stunning. The Iron Bull had no doubt that if Cullen had been completely comfortable with himself – if he had always been in his new body – that he would have engaged in flirting with Cullen. Except Cullen wasn't comfortable. That was fine by the Bull. He hadn't been joking when he said other people had only wanted to be held by him, no sex involved.

Cullen's clothes stayed on, and he eventually fell asleep against the Bull, their position having shifted sometime in the night to lying down. He was half curled against the Bull, head resting on the Bull's chest, and half lying against him. One leg was thrown over, tail tucked close for warmth.

When the Bull woke in the morning, Cullen was gone, but a large breakfast pastry, with a side of bacon, sat on the Bull's bedside table.

Touch-starved. Nobody wanted to touch Cullen, scared of his skin. His scaled skin was smooth and pliant, in a way. The Bull had enjoyed holding Cullen as much as Cullen had enjoyed being held by him. The Iron Bull resolved to make an effort to casually touch Cullen whenever they met, and hope that the rest of the Inquisition caught on.


End file.
